Definitions of Heaven and Hell
by Jemariel
Summary: Loki's thoughts on Bartleby after the train sequence, before they get to New Jersey. (Slash!!)


I tried to convince myself that it wasn't him

Disclaimer: (a statement made to save one's own ass.)I do not own these pretty little angels, or their situation. They are the brain child of Kevin Smith and belong to View Askew. Nor do I own Kodak.

Notes: Thanks to my very helpful beta readers, Xris, Zeda, and Joanne.

~*~Definitions of Heaven and Hell~*~

I tried to convince myself that it wasn't him. Tried to tell myself, no, Bartleby would never try to overthrow our creator, the one that he loved so much. That he'd never start another war like the one when Lucifer fell. But I know it's not true. I know there's nothing controlling him against his will. But hey, give me a fucking break here! In the past seventy two hours my life has gone from moderate, to bad, to worse, to whatever comes after worse. His words keep echoing through my head…"We're going home, Loki, and no one, not even the almighty Himself is going to make that otherwise." I got a real good look at his eyes when he slammed me into the post down in that parking garage. They were nothing like they usually are. Not the beautiful brown liquid pools that have stared into mine so often, so full of love and pity and tenderness. Not the laughing, dancing, watchful eyes I knew so long ago. His eyes had changed, and with them his soul.

No. Not his soul. Merely his judgment.

Yeah right, I laughed at myself.

But I couldn't stand to think that his very being was gone. Dead in the worst sense of the word. Lost to centuries of pain, of separation, of…of torment and anguish that humans have no name for or knowledge of. And I hope it stays that way, no one deserves to be separated from the very thing that makes them whole.

God makes angels whole. We never feel intact without her, we never will. It's the most complete feeling of emptiness imaginable, if the word complete can even be used to describe empty.

And yet, somehow, in that garage, I felt myself lose even more of that sense of completeness that I'd lost in our exile from Heaven. I'd lost Bartleby then. My beloved, my companion, my…as corny as it sounds, my kindred spirit. My fucking soul mate, and I lost him.

Bartleby makes me feel whole. When I'm in his arms, it's the closest thing to home that I've felt in the last thousand years.

If it had been an option for us angels, I would have gladly given myself to him physically a long, long time ago. Instead we've been forced to live with emotional displays of affection and a few kisses. Kisses that are the brightest points in my entire memory. And that's a lot of fucking memory. The last time we kissed I think was sometime in the middle of the seventeen hundreds, and I can still remember exactly how he tastes, exactly how his mouth feels, exactly how he likes to be kissed. God, if I could I'd fuck him exactly the same way. That, I believe, would be my true definition of what humans call Heaven. To join our bodies even as our souls are joined, what I wouldn't give…Bloody hell, God, if you were going to make us spend eternity away from paradise, couldn't you at least have given us certain physical attributes?

He said we were going home. That's a laugh. I don't think I'll ever be able to feel like I'm home again, not until he's back. Not until he holds me again, not until the Bartleby that I've loved since we met is returned to me. Sure, a pain in the ass sometimes, but more than worth it. Because this is my true definition of what humans call hell. That emptiness in his eyes, the grim set of his face, so different from the semi-amused with the world look, or the sappy almost-gonna-cry look he gets over Kodak moments. Would you believe me if I told you that he still watches people at the train or bus stations? He still sits while we're waiting for our train or bus to take us even closer to that fucking church in New Jersey, sits and stares at the couples or family members greeting each other.

It used to be a habit that annoyed the fucking sunshine out of me.

Now…now I think I'd kill myself if he didn't do it. Now I watch _him_ watch _others_, because that's the only time when he actually almost looks like his old self. Some of the hope returns to his eyes, and with it some of the grim determination recedes.

Moments like these, sitting here watching him watch are my lifeline, the only things keeping what's left of my sanity intact. It's in moments like these that I can allow myself to think, maybe he's not completely fucked. I can still talk him out of it. Or more appropriately, talk whatever demon that's inside of him into leaving him alone. Maybe…maybe he still loves me.

~*~^~*~

You know all those maybes? Well, fuck them.

The knife fucking hurt.

The hand that held it hurt more.

I couldn't distinguish physical pain from emotional, especially in my drunken stupor. All I knew was pain. My world, hell, my universe was comprised of Pain. I stared pleadingly into Bartleby's-_my _Bartleby's-void of eyes. Red stained the edges of my vision, slowly creeping inward until the Red was as all-engulfing as the Pain. I lost control of my muscles as I died, falling forward, but I somehow managed to keep eye contact with Bartleby until I was almost fully gone. The last touch of his I felt was his hand on the back of my neck, drawing our foreheads together. The last words I heard were his. "I'm sorry old friend. You lost the faith."

Lost the faith, my ass! If anyone's lost it, it's you, Bartleby! All I wanted was to go home, to be with you…now I don't think that's an option for either of us. I hope God doesn't have mercy on your soul.

I regretted the thought as soon as it was out of my mind's mouth. Even though he couldn't possibly have heard me, I apologized quickly and profusely.

I didn't mean that, oh my Bartleby…I am so fucking sorry…

And then, the inevitable happened.

I felt the oblivion swirl around me, scoop me up, and carry me away from my body. It was a strange sensation, like being pulled out of cold water into warm air. An almost stinging feeling of disconnection. I couldn't see a thing now, and yet I saw my whole world laid out in front of me. It consisted mainly of three things. God, slaughter, and Bartleby. I reached out to touch the image of Bartleby's face I found sitting before me in my life, in that strange field of vision that is played out on the inside of your eyelids. I found the cheek to be solid and prickly from a day's world of neglected shaving. The face was so near to tears that he seemed to have begun to cry already.

No words or questions were exchanged. Neither of us had any idea how or why we'd both showed up on the same cloud at virtually the same time. Neither of us knew where we were going, nor were we sure exactly where we'd come from, and we didn't ask for knowledge from whatever powers had brought us to where we were. But we did do one thing.

We kissed.

Memories are all well and good for some things, but for others they are vastly overrated. As my lips and tongue locked with Bartleby's my entire existence melted away. I was no more than a few seconds old, with no memory of anything but the kisses we'd shared. I have no clue how long we two were locked in that oral caress. Seconds or centuries, it makes no difference to me. For all I know, we might be still kissing. But for the life or death of me, I can only remember one word that went through my head that whole fucking wonderful kiss.

Maybe…

~*~Fin~*~


End file.
